Chaos Willing
by littleblackdog
Summary: Ethan had discovered long ago that in life there were opportunities, and then there were *opportunities*. Getting Ripper blind-drunk most definitely fit in the latter category. Giles/Ethan; rated for sexuality and language; set during ‘A New Man.’


Oh, he was starting to ramble now. Waxing if not purple then at least a drunken shade of puce about being ignored by the darkworlds at large. Twenty years of fighting demons– Shit, he was a _Watcher_. He was supposed to _watch _as the monsters are sliced and diced, not make the ghoulies weak in the knees himself. Was there something inherently confusing about the concept? Ethan bit his tongue, which actually helped the farce a bit by giving more slur to the words that actually did fall from his lips.

Getting old Ripper piss-faced had been such an excellent idea. Utter brilliance. Far more fun than getting his arse kicked three ways past Sunday, and it got the other man to loosen up as well. In point of fact, any looser and Rupert would be oozing into a puddle under the table, while Ethan was feeling little more than a faint buzz and all but gagging on the heavy, spicy-sweetness of powdered betony tucked beside his molars. He'd been rather relieved that he'd happened to have some in his coat pocket, but paranoia, something Ethan had in spades, could often be unexpectedly helpful in preparation for sudden events.

Could it really be called paranoia, though, when they _were_ actually out to get you?

The waitress, fagged-out thing, was approaching again, and Ethan had another flash of inspiration. Memories of the good days, of times when, feeling particularly raunchy, he would have Ripper take him to some pub or maybe out dancing, and Ethan would make a show of twinkling just that side of too much at someone else, flirt just a little too shamelessly, then watch with sharp arousal as the jealousy flared, burned, _exploded_ in his lover's eyes. Their evening out would be over shortly thereafter, perhaps with his would-be suitor in a broken crumple on the pavement, depending on Ripper's mood, and gods, Ripper would be _wild_ by the time they got back to the flat. If one of Ethan's better shirts was turned to rags in the process, or he got a horrible case of rug burn, well, never let it be said that Ethan Rayne was unwilling to make sacrifices for a greater cause. The greater cause being, of course, the hard, hot, fierce fucking he'd always get; sweaty, grabbing, biting, _claiming_–

"You know you're really very attractive," and he managed to keep his eyes vaguely on the chit when he said it too, even when Ripper made that sweet little confused sound. Went in for the one-two punch– "Here's my name and number," –and the knockout– "You give me a call, I'll show you a good time." Now piss off. He wasn't particularly fond of her tone when she'd responded, but hell, was it his fault she couldn't see a bloody fantastic thing, even when it was right there, close enough to bite her on her flat arse? She really wasn't his type, anyway.

Finally risking a glance at the other man, his stomach was clenched in anticipation. He wanted to see that heat again, without the consuming hatred and anger. Just pure need would be enough. Lust. Want. He'd make it enough.

Well, fuck.

Nothing. Ripper still just sitting, liquor-glazed expression, but now he was getting really maudlin, and it was _pathetic_ and _old_, and made a quiet, forgotten place deep in Ethan's chest ache.

No, he wouldn't do this. He'd fall back on the familiar, teasing, scare the man a bit, give him a thrill. There Ripper, get that heart beating a bit. Wake up and take a long look. And oh, how he'd missed that laugh, that crinkly, bright smile. It eased that aching place, enough for him to be able to keep looking Rupert in the eye.

"I'm going to feel like hell in the morning." Ethan was inclined to agree, although he didn't say as much. Ripper could obviously still hold his fair share of liquor, but it didn't seem that he was able to hold anyone else's share anymore. Poor bugger had probably been living on pale, unsweetened tea for the past two decades.

"Relax. Enjoy the night," and he truly meant it. Maybe the man would relax enough for them to both enjoy it, but he wasn't holding his breath just yet. "We're just a couple of sorcerers. The night it still our time." Had been their time before, even more than at present. Long nights, with soft sheets and softer moans, dampness, sliding, slick, shadows, with only the glow of streetlights outside their window and smooth, warm skin under his hands, over him, under him, around and in him. _Fuck_. "Time of magic." Their magic, _theirs_, together, because that was the _way_, that was how it was _supposed_ to be, and maybe the betony and his little sobering charm hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped, but he just raised his glass to Rupert's toast and tried to fight the woolliness wrapping around his brain.

He had another few sips of his pint, and swirled a full shot around for long moments. The silence was oddly familiar and easy, the kind of comfortable quiet you could only have between people who didn't have any need for idle chatter, because they'd said it before, knew where it was going. It'd been years; it shouldn't have been like that anymore. It shouldn't feel like slipping on a pair of perfectly worn-in shoes, favourites that you thought you'd lost so long ago, but then there they were, and they were so _right_.

Well, that settled it. Publius' Fyne Herbes would have to do without his previously frequent and profitable patronage; their dried betony was shit. He should have picked up a bit of fresh stuff when he'd procured the supplies for his little gag. Watching as Ripper downed another shot, he wondered idly how many bones he'd have broken if he tried a bit of footsie. Heavy eyes blinked slowly as Ripper raised his arm and peered down at his watch, then brought it closer to his face and blinked again. Ethan waited, running a finger around the rim of his glass.

"It's tomorrow already," Rupert announced with besotted certainty. "I should go home." Now or never, he supposed. Rubbing his eyebrow absently, as if thinking, Ethan tilted his head back with a lazy motion.

"Can't walk home this pissed, mate; you'll get nibbled. Split a cab with me?" He was quite pleased when the seemingly spontaneous query didn't even get him a frown, just a sluggish, rubbery-necked nod.

"Yeah, all right." It was rather perverse to pause and take pleasure in the sight that was Ripper dragging himself out of the booth, nearly pitching out face-first onto the floor, then swaying unsteadily on his feet when he finally made it to them, but by the gods it was funny. Ethan slid out of his seat smoothly and grabbed his coat, remembering belatedly to inject a wobble into his movements. Rupert, though, was completely engrossed in steadying himself against the tilting room, and Ethan didn't think he noticed the slip. Loosening his grip on the table edge once he got his bearings a moment later, Rupert began riffling around his person, trousers and coat— for another tip Ethan realised, in addition to the one he'd passed the waitress at the beginning of their binge. Before he could really think, he'd wrapped one hand around a sinewy wrist that was disappearing into the front pocket of worn blue jeans, and there was warm, flexing skin under his fingers and soft denim brushing his knuckles. Rupert startled at the contact, but didn't appear angry. Bemused and surprised was, perhaps, more accurate.

"I've got it," Ethan managed once he found his tongue again, and squeezed just slightly before letting his prize go and pulling out his own wallet to drop a handful of change between the ruins of their drinks. Rupert kept the hand in his pocket, then tipped his head for Ethan to precede him towards the bar, where their waitress was leaning and giving them a dubious look. Ethan slunk over, feeling the other man follow a short distance behind him, and shot the woman a slick smile, showing a hint of teeth. "Call us a cab, would you darling? There's a peach."

"One's already on its way over. We're closing."

"Oh? Well." Ethan looked back over his shoulder and blinked lazily. "We'll be off then, eh Ripper?" Poor, sweet, completely piss-faced man; Rupert should have stopped a good six shots before he had, at least. Together, to the door, then a stumble just outside, and Ethan gathered enough nerve to grab hold of Rupert's arm, his entire body bowstring-taut until he was sure he wasn't going to be shoved away.

"Fuck," Rupert grunted as they teetered down onto the pavement. When they entered the amber pool of streetlight, he extracted himself from Ethan's grasp with a light tug and rested his spine against the metal pole, tipping his head back with a sigh. The way he posed there, elbows hanging away from his body, thumbs hooked in his pockets– damn, all the man needed was a fag tucked behind one ear and that warm leather bomber, and they'd be back on Greek Street, reeking of cloves and magic. And each other.

"Ethan?" His head jerked up sharply from where he had been intently studying the toe of one shoe for long minutes. Their cab was pulling up, and he was more than a titch embarrassed that he hadn't heard it. Ripper swaggered over and pulled the back door open, flicking his wrist in a clear motion for Ethan to get in. Logically, Ethan realised that even a drunk Ripper knew better than to turn his back on him, but the offer could also be interpreted as a charming little feat of chivalry. A bit too Trollope-esque, perhaps, but when he put one foot in the cab and smirked over at the other man, he got a smile in return that warmed him to his core.

He slid across the upholstery and folded his legs in the rather cramped car, wrinkling his nose at the sweet, musty aroma that immediately permeated his senses. A quick glance up confirmed his suspicions that their cabby wasn't quite human under its low tilted ball cap, but what the hell, some demons needed spending cash just as much as the next bloke.

Giles climbed in behind him, closing the door and plunging them into the semi-dark of the street lamp as the car's interior light blinked out. Ethan leaned back into his shadowy corner. The cabbie grunted softly and tilted his head, face still quite hidden but eyes glowing out of the darkness ever so slightly red. When he spoke, his tone was mellow and quiet.

"Where to, gentlemen?" Ethan noticed Rupert look over at him and shrugged exaggeratedly, making sure the other man caught the motion.

"Your place is closer." Rupert's expression was mostly hidden from him, but a calm, if slurred, voice gave the address of his flat to the cabby without further discussion. Perhaps it was just the sprawl of a man full of copious amounts of alcohol, but Ethan didn't think he imagined the feeling of heat from a body sitting closer to him than strictly necessary given the size of their seat. The cab pulled away from the kerb, and something– a hand– brushed his fingers where they rested beside his thigh, only to disappear almost before he was sure he'd felt it. He licked his lips and stared out the window at the passing streets, waiting for more, but that was apparently all he was going to get.

It wasn't too long before the cab pulled up in front of Rupert's building, and the silence became painful, at least to Ethan. He opened his mouth to make some smarmy remark about Rupert's neighbourhood, but the other man cut him off before he'd even made a sound.

"Thank you for the information, Ethan." The door eased open and Rupert pulled himself out onto the pavement, closing the door behind himself and stumbling into the darkness. Ethan swallowed thickly, nearly choked on the betony, then rubbed one hand over his face. He could feel the cabbie's attention focused on him, and he reached into his pocket for his wallet with a small grin and the realisation that Rupert had left him to pay the fare.

"Pull away, turn the next corner, then stop." The driver did as instructed, and Ethan passed him a couple of bills before sliding across the seat and stepping out into the night. He spat out the damp pellet of herbs, then walked quite briskly back to Rupert's, hoping the man hadn't passed out as soon as he got inside, but also that he had given him enough time to actually get in. Ethan paused in the shadows within sight of Rupert's door, seeing nothing of the man, then slipped forward, hand hovering just above the dark wood. What in the name of Janus was he thinking? He'd been lucky that Ripper hadn't mashed his skull to pulp in that crypt, let alone that he'd been able to have a few civil drinks with the man; what the _hell_—

He rapped sharply twice, then three more times. There was a pregnant pause, and Ethan wasn't sure whether he was going to knock again or take off as fast as his legs could carry him. The door swung open and Rupert was there, dark shirt half unbuttoned, eyes soft and expression not nearly as surprised as Ethan had expected it to be.

"Ethan, what–"

"How drunk are you?" The safest bet might be to not let him finish a sentence, to keep him off guard. Rupert blinked, leaning against the door with one arm.

"Wha–" Ethan pounced. It was, perhaps, not his best thought-out plan, but it did get the taste of Ripper in his mouth again, after so many years, and even soured by alcohol it was worth the thrashing he would most likely receive in a few seconds. Rupert's lips had been open mid-word and Ethan darted his tongue inside briefly, all too aware that it could easily be bitten off. Hair still fine and baby-soft, if shorter than he remembered, tangled around his fingers as he held on for dear life, clinging desperately though he'd never admit it. The warmth was there, the smell, the feeling, oh Janus– strong, familiar hands pressed against his chest, to push him away, but then that hot, delicious mouth was moving against his own, hands were grasping not pushing, and Ethan moaned shamelessly.

Pulling at his coat, oh gods, _lifting_ him off the floor by his lapels and turning him around, into the flat, and Ethan heard the door slam shut as he clawed at Rupert's shirt, arms held at odd angles by the continued display of growling dominance. The toes of his shoes were just touching the floor, his shoulders were jerked about painfully, and that knowing, vicious mouth was still in the process of sucking out his soul– Ethan was a hairsbreadth away from a complete meltdown. This was too much, it _hurt_, and he needed it like air, like magic, like _Rupert_.

The world shifted sharply as he was shoved backwards, his arse hitting something solid— the back of the chesterfield— hard. Rupert was on him again a second later, bending him down, furniture frame digging painfully into his hips, and he shoved back enough to make Rupert lighten his weight. Lips and teeth moved up his jaw, biting sharply on his earlobe and making him grunt, then broad, rasping stripes were licked over the sting. He managed to get his hands out and mobile enough to finish the rest of Rupert's shirt buttons, then rucked up the white tee underneath and scratched down the newly exposed chest and stomach. Rupert's hips jerked in response, driving Ethan into his perch and drawing a soft whine from him. Pulling back suddenly, Rupert was panting hard and flushed, a look of confusion flickering through his eyes, while Ethan had to grab his shoulders to stop from falling back onto the chesterfield.

"I— what the _hell_—" It wasn't fair that Rupert was starting to think with the head on his shoulders again, and it was not an eventuality that Ethan was prepared to deal with before they had reminisced further. He used his leg to hook Rupert's hips and drew their cocks firmly together, using his leverage to grind slowly but _hard_. He watched Rupert's lashes flutter, his eyes rolling back, and Ethan pulled himself up a bit more, nuzzling against a stubbly jaw and cheek.

"Please Rupert." He couldn't even kid himself that his breathy, desperate tone was an act. "I'll beg if you like, just _please._ I _need_ you." For a long moment it was like humping a telephone pole— lifeless and so brittle Ethan was worried he's get splinters.

Then, shockingly, there were fingers grabbing his chin roughly and familiar, soft lips crashing against his own, and Ethan could do very little but hold on for dear life.

He wasn't entirely certain how, but sometime later he found himself sprawled on his back about halfway up Rupert's stairs, both his shirt and trousers having already absconded, and pressing the straining bulge in his pants against the flies of Rupert's thrice-damned jeans. The stairs were unforgiving against his spine, and the angle of Rupert's latest bruising kiss twisted his neck just short of too-painfully, and it was _glorious_.

Then, without warning, Ripper tore his mouth away. "Betony," he snarled, and Ethan's gut twisted with a cold whisper of fear. The jig might be up, and that could be terribly awkward. "You utter _prick_, Ethan."

He braced himself; it'd been some time since he'd had his brains dashed all over a set of stairs. But no, despite the bluster and the somewhat serious beatings he'd endured, Ethan knew this was a new and shiny Ripper. A Rupert Giles with some softness in him, some _mercy_ learned somewhere over the years, and Ethan refused to contemplate whether that change made him more or less attractive.

There was a broad hand wrapped around his throat, holding him in place, but there was no greying of his vision or burning in his lungs. Ripper wasn't going to strangle him, it seemed.

He grinned fiercely, taunting, and the brash expression did not falter even when Ripper's thumb dug sharply into his jaw, turning his face to the side. Hot breath, sour with liquor, ghosted over his cheek and ear— he managed to swallow the doubtlessly _whorish_ moan that threatened to bubble up, but couldn't hide his shudder. Ethan Rayne had many buttons, and Ripper knew how to push them all.

"Least one of us can get it up, you bastard." The words were growled, and Ethan indulged himself just slightly with the memories of a voice rough from pot, cloves and screaming brawls in the stinking London streets. "I'm completely pissed."

"Oh, I can take care of that for you." When all he received in answer was a derisive snort, he licked his lips, peering over at Ripper as much as possible out of the corner of his eye. "You doubt me? For shame, lover."

Flexibility was a talent that had always proved useful for him, and this night was no different. One quick snaking move of his arm, and Ethan slipped his fingers smoothly under the waist of Ripper's jeans, pressing against the somewhat interested cock he found there. That earned him a harsh gasp, a loosening of the hand holding his neck so uncomfortably— Ethan had discovered long ago that in life there were opportunities, and then there were _opportunities_. Jerking his hips to one side, he managed to get just enough of a foothold to kick off, and then he was gone, scrambling up the stairs still mostly on his hands and knees. He was so bloody lucky Ripper was rat-arsed; slow, muddy reflexes meant Ethan didn't have his ankle grabbed as he darted away, and thus his front teeth did not meet the stairs in a very unpleasant manner. Good luck, all around.

"Get up here and fuck me Ripper," he called back, not daring to pause long enough to even glance at the crashing and cursing he'd left behind him. "Or crawl into your sad sodding kitchen and make us some tea."

Heavy footsteps were following, and he recognised their shit-kicking beat— it was not so unlike the pounding of his own heart, or the throbbing of his cock. He'd only admit to one of those aloud.

"Ethan—" The voice was too close, the bed too far, and Ethan spirited down the hallway as quickly as he could with a raging hard-on. The flat was dark, but he'd lurked on-and-off around Sunnydale long enough to know the way. That Rupert had never confronted him on the occasional breech of his wards when the vigilant Watcher was elsewhere, or the rare time Ethan had indulged himself by nicking a shirt, or a record, or whatever… well, it wasn't something he allowed himself to dwell upon. Pretending this was all a form of mild torture made the act of sneaking in to jerk off in Rupert's bed seem more malicious and less pathetic.

He made it to the bedroom door, yanking his pants down just in time to fling them back in Rupert's face as the man charged up at him. Then it was a mad dash to the bed, throwing himself atop it with enough force that the frame creaked ominously, then crawling back against the pillows with his legs spread wide. Give old Ripper a show, remind him of what Ethan was arrogant enough to _know_ he'd been missing— the beginnings of a bulge in Ripper's jeans, as the man stood glowering and panting against the doorframe, made Ethan's mouth water.

He lifted one brow challengingly, just as he bent one knee up in invitation. "No tea then?"

"Damn you," came the too quiet rumble, sounding almost wistful, and there was to be none of _that_ rubbish. Taking matters into his own hands, so to speak, Ethan reached down and began stroking himself very slowly.

"Get over here and let me suck you—" He groaned, lifting his hips, but didn't take his eyes off Ripper. "Ah, _gods_— before I come all over your lovely, clean quilts."

Then, without any further encouragement, Ripper was pushing his jeans and pants down and Ethan squeezed himself in anticipation.

He was paler, softer around the middle, but he was _here_ and he was _real_, and the sight of him made Ethan's fingers itch to _touch_.

Ripper stumbled over to the edge of the bed, and Ethan drew himself up with perhaps a bit more desperation than he would have liked. Still, a drunk Ripper was a less observant Ripper, and Ethan was able to push his twinge of embarrassment aside. Kneeling before the man, unable to keep his eyes from straying downward, Ethan reached out to skim his hand along smooth ribs. There had been times, darker and colder, when those ribs had stood out sharply, defiant in even as hunger gnawed at them. They hadn't needed jobs or daddy's money— they'd had each other, and the magic, and just enough stupidity to spend their last speck of cash on dope instead of bread.

Now those ribs were well-padded with aging muscle and just a hint of growing pudge, and Ethan knew that _he'd_ gone craggy where he'd once been lithe, but Ripper didn't seem to mind.

They were kissing again, and it was becoming just a little sweet, but Ethan couldn't bring himself to bite. His mind was screaming at him, but Rupert's hands were dry and warm against his shoulder and his thigh, pulling him near, and that touch was louder than any common sense that might still be clinging.

"The room is spinning," Rupert complained eventually, around the same time Ethan had begun to purr from the fingers massaging his nape and the gradually hardening cock pressed against his belly. "And I think you mentioned a blow job."

This had become too comfortable by half, too familiar, but Ethan couldn't help chuckling at the blatant, utterly certain request. Using his hold around Ripper's back, he tugged the man off balance just enough to get him climbing awkwardly onto the bed beside him.

"Lie back, old man," he said with a smirk, trailing his nails down through greying chest hair.

Rupert settled back against the pillows, sighing. "What, and think of England? I remember you being a sight better than _that_."

Something too complex to contemplate pinged in his heart, and Ethan ignored it. "Too liquored for a proper hard-on, and a smart mouth as well. I do love a challenge."

He might have a Giles-fetish, but he was hardly a monk. A couple decades of practice meant he had some new tricks to show off, and soon he had Ripper arching up off the bed, sweating and begging with fingers tangled deliciously in his hair. If he hadn't been so very determined to get exactly what he wanted, Ethan might have made the man come right there, just to show that he bloody well could _own_ Ripper with his tongue, his mouth, and his hands.

His coat, along with the contents of its pockets, was balled up somewhere downstairs, but unless things had changed drastically in the few months since he'd last been in town, he didn't need to worry about supplies. Rupert whined in protest when he pulled away— not before giving the shining purple head one last suckle, of course— then squawked something else vaguely objecting when Ethan reached over to riffle through the drawer of his bedside table. Snooping had so many perks, really, and Ethan was able to grab the lube and the crinkly packet of a condom without much fumbling at all.

"Here—" He waggled his prize, noting that Ripper's eyes followed his movements a bit quicker than they had at the bar, or even before the jeans had puddled on the floor. "Make yourself useful."

He'd been called a pillow-biter before, but had never really felt the insult intended. When his toes curled and his hands clutched madly at the sheets, arse in the air for Ripper's attentions, he didn't quite live up to the name, either.

"_Yes_," he hissed, making absolutely no attempt to muffle his moans and cries. "Gods, _uh_, that's _it_, Ripper. _Yes_—"

Before it was all over, the headboard had left scrapes along the wall, most of the bedclothes were tangled in a heap on the floor, and cliché or not, Ethan could have sworn he saw stars. There were so many good reasons why he kept coming back to this man.

They were both slick with sweat, and the room smelled of a heady mix of brothel and brewery. Ethan stretched, enjoying the ache that lanced through him at the move, and Rupert grumbled into his shoulder. There was an arm slung heavy over his side, caressing his chest in such a lazy, affectionate way, and a solid warmth pressed up against his back— it was as close to paradise as he'd ever find, more than likely.

Already snoring softly, Rupert was dead to the world in a peaceful, sated rest. Morning loomed like a reaper, however, and Ethan knew precisely what the sun would bring with it. Clear-headedness, reality, _duty_— all those things that had poisoned Ripper to him before, and would again. There was no rest for the wicked, or so the saying went, but Ethan was a master of working around barriers. Locked doors, powerful wards… even the walled off old heart of a stodgy Watcher.

Sometimes things just took time and patience, which luckily enough Ethan had been blessed with in abundance. At least when it came to very important things.

He had a pouch in his coat with all the correct ingredients, and the longer he dallied the greater the chance of Rupert shaking off his stupor. Then the arm around him tightened, and something was mumbled against his neck that sounded promisingly like his name— perhaps a few moments more wouldn't hurt. It had been quite the evening for Ripper, after all. Going from maudlin to blind drunk all the way to debauched in the span of a few hours was a lot to handle for such dusty old bones.

Oh, but Ripper had handled _him_ beautifully.

A few herbs, a little wave of his fingers, and Ripper would have no choice but to track him down. Whether he got a thrashing or a fucking out of it, at least he'd have some meaning in the bastard's life again. He wouldn't be so easily brushed aside, or forgotten.

Worming his way into his lover's bed had been much easier than carving out a place for himself in the man's world, but Ethan was willing to try. Teasing, pranks— nothing especially deadly, and nothing that would harm _innocents_. He'd learned his lesson so far as this new Rupert was concerned, and perhaps he could give this not-quite-so-evil thing a go. If it got boring, he could always leave.

Life without Ripper was certainly boring, and tweed-chic could use a bit of roughing up around the edges anyway, especially with the coming malevolence that was being whispered about in the dark places.

Certainly, there was a touch of bad blood between him and the Slayer, but bygones could eventually become bygones. He would simply have to play his cards very carefully, take advantage of all his resources, and _play nice_. Small sacrifices, really.

Yes, Ethan Rayne had the skills to do this. He knew his Ripper inside and out, even now.

He had the patience to wait for his wider plan to come to fruition, and if the gods were willing, he'd have the time.

END

* * *

_AN: I found the beginning of this on my old hard drive, and decided to dust it off and finally finish it. If I remember correctly, Season 7 might not have even been finished yet when this was first sketched out, but I think I've fixed what, er, hadn't aged well. I wonder if this was how I meant to end it... _

_For any of you who wandered over here from my Dragon Age fics_—_ this flight of fancy is the reason there's no **Reconstruct** chapter this week. I'm working on it, though._


End file.
